This is It...

I have only a couple days left until I leave Spain and head for home. It’s crazy how fast it’s gone by. But the fact that my time here is almost done has stirred up a lot of emotions and thought within me: worries about the unknown future, excitement to go home, and sadness at the same time to leave a place that I have come to love. Although I can’t wait to get home, to sit in my warm kitchen with my family and eat my mom’s delicious crispy waffles, cuddle with my dog, and run in my favorite park, I’m also dreading the endless “how was your trip?” and “what did you learn?” questions. I guess I can just tell them to read my blog  And that’s exactly why those kinds of questions just can’t be answered with a simple response: it literally would take volumes to describe my time here and what I’ve learned. BUT, in the interest of being prepared with intelligent, thoughtful, and articulate answers, I thought I’d give them a whirl:

Hypothetical Question 1: How was your trip?
In one word: eye-opening.

What I wish I had time to say:

A few of my favorite conversations:
-An hour and a half discussion about faith with my 35 year old host brother Paco one day after lunch while sitting in the living room, and Carmen (my host mom) asleep in the armchair. Also, him teaching me and my roommates how to make sushi and salad and crepes (He´s a professional chef) and getting to eat his incredible food.
-Chatting with a middle-aged Swedish man in an airport, who was drunk on Spanish wine and told us that the loved us about five times during the conversation, in English, with an accent that sounded like he had Down’s Syndrome (but he didn’t).
-Sitting on the edge of my bed and having political, religious, and cultural talks (sometimes debates) with my two fabulous roommates (while snacking on Nutella).
-Exchanging a few words with the Italian old lady who lives in my apartment while in the elevator, and getting a “Ciao bella!” when I left- made my day.
-Being asked by an old Spanish man in the street if he could paint me and pay me for it: a bit awkward, but still memorable.
-Practicing Spanish on runs with Tim in the Sierra Nevadas, and listening to him get so darn good at Spanish in such a short time it was scary.
-Talking with a group of Australians, who live in London, while at a hostel in Italy (and joking about their view of Americans, and some Aussie slang, like “swimmers” instead of “bathing suit”).
-Having a great talk over coffee and tea in Oxford’s union club with my dear friend Madison, Tim, and our friend Kelly who is studying there and showed us around for a day.
-Trying to solve Spanish puns while spending time with some of my favorite people, Mark and Karen, Tim, and the beautiful Spanish family of Guillerme and Toni in North Africa during a visit to their house one afternoon.
-Debating about women’s roles and rights in my Spanish class with students from all over the world, and standing up for what I believe in, even though one Greek guy in particular gave me dirty looks the whole time- also made my day.
-Chatting with Carmen about the joys of being young and the life lessons she’s learned as she’s gotten older.

A few of my favorite places:
-The Sierra Nevada Mountains: amazing hiking, beautiful scenery, and some great rock climbing. One afternoon, Tim and I hiked around for hours, found a deserted farmhouse next to a river, and scaled a ridge by walking on a narrow animal track, and the whole time I was terrified that the bulls we’d seen grazing down below were dangerous, and could potentially attack us. I later discovered that we had been safe, since the bulls were wearing bells and weren’t the free-roaming, aggressive kind that can kill. My host father, Paco, had once been hiking near the same place and a bull charged at him, sending him rolling down a cliff to escape. Apparently the bull ring isn’t the only place bulls like to charge.
-Melilla, Spain: I love this city so much. It´s not very touristy, and it´s not even very big. But the people I´ve met there are so awesome. It is such a diverse place: Moroccans and Spaniards and a ton of other cultures all live in the same city, that has the coast on one side, and Morocco on the other. One of my favorite memories of Melilla was going to the fair with our friends Mark and Karen in August. All the little Spanish kids were dressed up in traditional Spanish clothes, and it was so fun to wander around and take it all in.
-My bed: after a long day, it’s the only place I want to be, naturally. But it also has been the place where I do most of my writing. I prop the pillow up against the headboard, put on some quiet, relaxing music, and get out my lap-top. Even though I only look at a white wall, there’s a painting of a man sitting in a plaza in a city, and a gold-rimmed large mirror that’s too high for me to see myself in (on lazy weekend mornings, I’m grateful for that!). Also, Carmen likes to change the comforter cover just about every week- I really don’t know where she keeps them all, there’s been at least four so far.
-Pan y Chocolate: Pretty self-explanatory, but not just any old bakery. This place makes some seriously good chocolate croissants, and I’ve a bit of a connoisseur now that I’ve been to Paris, and probably six or seven different bakeries in Granada alone.
-The Cinque Terre: five little villages you can hike between, along the coast of Italy. Enough said.
-Oxford: a university town in England, complete with the dining Hall of Harry Potter, old libraries steeped in history, and scholarly charm that makes the place magical in its own right.
-my living room: Americans are so far behind. My host mom has this table in front of the couch and these comfy chairs, and the sides are made out of blanket material so you can put it on your lap. Under the table , there´s a little heater, so you put your feet on this ledge, cover your legs with the blanket, and you never want to move! Gosh, i´m going to miss that thing. But more than that, I had a great time chatting with my host family at the table, laughing and eating way too much bread (it´s a staple here with every meal).

Hypothetical Question 2: What did you learn while studying abroad?
In one word: Tons.

Long answer:
-How to live out of a backpack: After traveling four three weeks around Europe, hopping from train to train in the sweltering heat of August, you really learn not to care about wrinkles or stains or the occasional scenta of b.o. on your clothes.It sounds gross, but it really changes your perspective on "neccessities". For that, I am thankful. I´ve come to learn things are a lot less complicated (and a lot lighter) with less STUFF. Also, you learn to resist shopping too much when you realize you have to carry it all with you.
-Spanish: no brainer. BUT it still is something I´ve learned. I feel like I can communicate so much better in Spanish now, and I can understand when people talk fast now, which is a feat in itself for me! I wish I had more time here to learn even more Spanish. But I´m so thankful for how much I´ve improved; I love the feeling of being able to talk with someone in Spanish, and know that if I would have never put the work in to learn the language, I would probably never be able to talk with them if Spanish is their only language. It makes all the endless hours of studying and embarrassing language mistakes in conversations it all worth it when I feel like I´m really connecting with someone.
-It´s good to take risks, life is boring without them: Before coming to Spain, I was itching for adventure. But I didn´t really think about how that willingness to be flexible and open and daring would affect my personality and perspective on life. I guess now that I´ve been on this adventure, I realize that, even though there are hard, stressful, and emotional times that come with it, stretching yourself is so important. It´s so easy for me to want to take the safe road, to stay in my comfort zone and plan exactly what my future will look like. But lately, I´ve really been challenged to go for my dream as a journalist even though it´s scary. I have no idea if I will get a job (it´s extremely competetive), but I also know that if I don´t try, I will always regret it. I don´t think I would have come to that realization if it wasn´t for this trip.
-Don´t panic: "everything will be alright". When I lost my passport,I had one sleepless night, and one stressful morning at the American Embassy in London waiting outside with the guards holding their AK 47´s to get an emergency passport. In the end, I got my purse back with everything still intact after I had left it on the bus the night before. Moral of the story: constant worry won´t add any years to your life. Sometimes all you can do is pray and trust God that everything will be ok. Most of the time it is. And the rest of the time, we are never alone.
-Reach out:No matter where you are in the world, there are some bad, annoying people. Thankfully, you are also always going to find good, loving, incredible people who brighten up your life and keep you laughing until the end. When you are open to meeting new people, new friends can be one of the biggest blessings. Especially when you learn things from them, or you relate with them in really special ways, or you feel a little more like yourself whenever you spend time with them. This trip has taught me to be more social, to reach out more and hang out with new people. It spices things up, no matter where you are.

I really can´t believe this adventure is drawing to a close. I don´t want to draw this out, but i just want to say thanks to those of you who have followed my blog. I feel lucky to have had you to share this journey with- i´m serious! It has meant so much to me to know that people care. And maybe in the future I´ll will find something else to blog about. If so, "until next time" my friends.

Carpe Diem.

EL FIN

What do you think?

I rarely believe anyone that tell me they actually had fun during a 5K cross-country race, unless they ran in a “fun run,” which are usually geared toward middle-aged moms and old hairy men reliving their glory days, except in shorter shorts. Don’t get me wrong-I think fun runs are great. But they hardly resemble a collegiate race where there’s always a welcome mat of vomit at the finish line from runners pushing themselves to their absolute limit.

No, college cross-country races are hardly ever fun. After the race is fun, but only after the feeling of nausea and the extreme muscle fatigue subsides enough to feel proud of your accomplishment-and relieved that it’s over. Really, the whole task of running a race is fighting the urge to stop running; it’s an act of resistance, and it’s extremely mental.

Almost everything we choose to resist takes at least some level of mental strength. But often times, nature takes control and wins over our immortal, human selves. For example, it’s easy to fight the urge to sleep for a time with heavily caffeinated energy drinks and triple espressos, but with every high there is always a crash. Eventually, nature takes over and sleep descends upon every insomniac and medical school student desperately trying to stay awake.

Similarly, runners who exert themselves to the maximum of their abilities will eventually grow weary and collapse. An experienced runner knows how to give a race everything they have, but if they choose to do so, they will collapse at the end nonetheless.

Clearly, the act of resistance can take many forms. And since resistance is synonymous with defiance, there are a multitude of spiritual and intellectual questions that arise.

What does it mean to resist God? Is it simply a passive act of running away, of not stepping foot in a church, of plugging your ears when someone speaks about their faith? Or is it more involved than that? I think it’s a lot more complex than one might think.

We are all searching for truth, for proof that what we believe is right. But often times, the attempt to disprove a certain belief becomes far more important. It’s usually our dislikes that define us most: the kind of music we hate, the food we think is disgusting, the political views or beliefs of others we don’t agree with.

It’s exhausting. It’s almost as if the more we try to resist something, the more we are shaken up. It’s inevitable that stronger resistance requires that much more mental strength. In terms of beliefs, it means tougher opposition and amplified defiance against whatever it is you are trying to disprove. Physical exhaustion eventually causes a runner to collapse, and sleep eventually comes to those who are fighting it.

Can the same idea be applied to running away from God? Actively resisting God is, from personal experience, hard work. In order for this to happen, there first must be belief that there is a God, you say. I would disagree. You can read thousands of books scientifically and historically “disproving” that God exists. You can sip tea with world scholars and laugh about the stupidity of believing in God, which is clearly just a crutch for the weak. You can even study the Bible and highlight all the things you don’t understand that sound like contradictions.

But in the end, if God truly does exist, every individual who personally denies God’s existence is simply wrong. It does matter how actively you reject Him or how passionately you dismiss Him. Both those who passively and actively deny God would be off the mark.

Running away is running away- no matter how fast you go, how mentally strong you are, or how much you have trained. In the end, none of us can escape the laws of nature; we will all eventually collapse whether it’s in the middle of the race or at the finish line. It’s only after it’s all said and done that the celebration can truly begin; all the pain, the mental battles, the torment is finally over. You don’t have to run anymore.

What are we waiting for?

Outside of Zara, one of the most popular Spanish clothing stores, there’s a woman who kneels on the pavement every day with her head bowed. She has a little cardboard sign asking for money to help care for her children. And everyday, she wears the same turtleneck sweater and puffy gray vest. She looks to be in her mid-forties, wears glasses on a chain around her neck, and has short brown hair peppered with gray.

At first, this woman annoyed me. I really don’t know whether or not she is one of the panhandlers that has a house and plenty of food waiting for her after her day job of sitting on the street. I’ve heard about lots of panhandlers in the US who are not homeless, and simply work the streets in search of a little extra cash. So I couldn’t help but pass the same judgment on this woman. ‘What right does she have to sit on the street and beg?’ I thought every time I passed her on my way to and from class.

But then, little by little, my attitude about this woman began to change. A couple times a week, I wake up at seven and meet Tim downtown in front of Burger King to go on a run. It takes me exactly six minutes to run from my apartment to our meeting place. To get there I run right past Zara, and the same woman is always there, waiting for the sun to come up.

It got me thinking about what it means to wait for something- whether it’s a day’s worth of spare change or a hefty paycheck. It can easily be argued that all this lady does all day is sit and beg, but personally I’ve never tried it. I have a feeling it’s not the easiest thing in the world, especially in a country where your “street self” is extremely important. For example, all the women here dress up to simply go run errands: even if people are poor, they always appear in public smartly dressed and well-groomed. Culturally, there is much more emphasis is placed on appearance in order to be socially accepted in Spain.

This woman wears the same thing everyday. I can’t help but wonder what she must be feeling as she sits there. She must be embarrassed, even if only a little, to not have more clothes to wear. Her knees must ache from kneeling for so long, and her neck must be stiff from looking at her lap for hours on end. And I’m sure in the past she’s been mistreated, or stepped on, maybe even spit on. In this woman’s case, waiting is not easy. I wonder, when she’s kneeling there with her head bent, if she’s praying. Maybe she’s praying for the day to be over so she can be with her children and out of the public eye.

I can’t easily relate to this woman. The only time I’ve every waited for anything while sitting on the street is for a parade to start. And the only time I’ve ever worn the same thing two days in a row is while camping. But one thing I can relate to is waiting for something. I’m always thinking of the future, whether it’s one hour later or a ten years down the road. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for me: what job I will someday have, where I will live, and what kind of person I will be.

In my life, waiting for is often pretty easy: I have a pile of things to do everyday- papers to write, races to run, friends and family to spend time with. Sometimes I get into the mindset that sitting around and sitting still is the equivalent of sitting on my dreams. How can I ever get anything accomplished if I am not constantly working toward my goals? It’s almost as if the idea of waiting for what the future holds has been repackaged and sold as precious time to shape whatever future I want for myself.

Is there anything wrong with this? Putting all this pressure on myself and being completely goal oriented may make time go by a lot faster- at least a lot faster than kneeling on the pavement all day.

But I’ve come to realize that I am no better than the woman on the street because of how I choose to spend my time compared to how she chooses to spend hers. In fact, I think I could use a little more waiting in my life and a lot less “doing.”

Both my faith and my intellect have taught me that my life isn’t mine to shape. Yes, I am responsible for my actions, for working hard and reaching my goals. But it’s not a one-woman show. Who knows what will happen in the next hour, the next day, the next month? A huge, life-shattering natural disaster may strike tomorrow and then we would all be left with nothing. Or would we?

Maybe what we think of as “nothing” really should be our “everything.” Maybe kneeling on the ground to pray and to wait isn’t a waste of time at all, but a lifeline. A hope. A future.

Let's go for a paseo.

There are some things that grow on you, others that don’t. When I was little, I hated eating raw broccoli-I used to spit it out in my napkin, hide it under the table, and sneak off to the trash can after dinner when I thought my dad wasn’t looking. I still loathe the bitter, dry taste of raw broccoli in my mouth, but I also try to force it down every so often in the name of calcium. With that said, there are some things in life that only grow sweeter with time.

As a girl, I also strongly disliked going on walks without a destination. To me, the idea of spending all that time and energy to walk in a circle, or a straight line, or whatever shape aimless walks seem to make, was as pointless to me as driving somewhere and turning back around immediately after arriving at the destination. Naturally, I hated hiking as well, which was infinitely more boring due to the predictable green and brown scenery.

Thankfully, I grew up and grew out of my narrow-minded views on the art of walking. Little by little, I learned to appreciate my ability to wander. When I was fourteen, I was stranded in bed for a week after a car accident that damaged my upper back. It was the first time I ever experienced immobility, and it opened my eyes to what it’s like to be trapped: I wanted nothing more than to simply go outside and move.

I thought I had learned my lesson, but four years later I developed a stress fracture in my hip from running too much and was confined to crutches for two months. It was one of the hardest experiences of my life, but I sure did appreciate walking after two months of going without. In fact, I loved walking so much I would find excuses to go on walks. Soon after I was off my crutches, I walked forty minutes to the beach and forty minutes back twice in one day.

At this point in my life, I didn’t think I could become any more of a walking aficionado. But then I met my boyfriend, Tim, and I soon realized that I was mistaken. In my mind, five fingers in mine equals walking to the fifth power- it is exponentially better than taking a stroll solo. We’ve had many amazing walks together over the past year and a half: we’ve sauntered through Sunday morning Mexican flea markets in LA, strolled along the beach in San Diego, ambled along the star-lit roads of Bend, Oregon, and marched through the rainy residential streets of Portland.

When I first arrived in Granada to study, I was so very lost- literally. Both of my parents are directionally challenged, so it’s no surprise that it wasn’t until the third grade I finally had the whole “left hand”, “right hand” thing down. With that said, my anxiety to venture out and explore the city on my own was, in my opinion, very valid.

Soon after I arrived, month-long language preparatory classes began. Tim walked me home from class everyday, even though he lived on the opposite end of the city, about a thirty-minute walk each way. One of the first times we walked to my house together, he stopped in the middle of a plaza about a mile from my house and told me to direct us home. I turned to him with a smile, but soon realized he wasn’t kidding. “It’s for your own good,” he told me.

Initially, I was a little mad at him. Tim knew I was horrible with directions, and that I still hadn’t oriented myself with the city. Nevertheless, I started walking to the left, down a narrow street painted with shadows. “Is this the right way?”, I sighed sarcastically. Everywhere around us, people were hustling home from work, or picking up their kids from school. It seemed like the whole world was out, itching to make it home. And I was right in the middle of it. The arches of my feet ached, my back hurt from carrying my bookbag, and I suddenly I felt overwhelmed from the crowds of people that enclosed me.

Somehow, I managed to find my way home. I admit, Tim had to help me a little, but nevertheless I made it back safely. After that experience, something changed. Little by little, I learned my way around the city. I began to wander the infinite collection of alleys without reserve, and begged Tim to go on walks with me in the old Muslim neighborhood, The Albaicin- a maze of whitewashed homes and walled gardens nestled in the hills next to the Alhambra (an ancient Moorish castle).

In my mind, every unknown neighborhood was transformed from its previous form of an eerie breeding ground of danger to an infinite playground. I would saunter past store windows to peek inside at whatever treasures were held inside: sewing shops with an antique dollhouse in the window, tiny clothing stores with handmade dresses and local artwork, and warm bakeries with mouth-watering pastries displayed in glass cases.

A few days ago, Tim and I decided to wander through the Albaicin’s shopping district, filled with Moroccan teahouses and street vendors selling colorful quilts, lanterns, and leather slippers. We climbed up the steep, cobblestoned alleys and soaked in the warm afternoon sun, stopping at whatever shop or wall of graffiti caught our attention. As daylight began to fade, we sat on an ancient wall in the Albaicin and watched the sun’s shadows stain the Cathedral in the distance. We walked home in the dark, stopping at a park along the way with a lighted fountain and past a gang of stray cats who scattered when we passed by.

We walked for about four hours that afternoon, up and down the streets of Granada. We had no place to be, no reason to hurry. All around us, people were rushing to get home, as usual. But when I looked closer, I realized that many people weren’t in a hurry: cute old couples strode side-by-side with groceries in hand, hippies with dreadlocks were out for a walk with their dogs, and young fathers and mothers proudly pushed strollers with the newest member of their family nestled inside.

In Spanish, the word for “walk” is paseo. Recently, I came across a travel book of Spain on the bookshelf in my bedroom. It explained that, in Spain, a paseo is more than a normal walk. In essence, it is a walk with no destination- a ramble. Every weekend, you see hundreds of Spaniards out for their weekly (or daily) paseo with friends and family, even though all the stores are closed on Sundays.

After living in Spain for two months, I now have a new definition of walks. I think “paseo” is so much more fitting. You “walk” to the store, to the school, to a destination. You “dar un paseo” around the city with someone you love, aimlessly wander, let the sea of people on the street wash you up in the rhythm of shuffling feet. I really believe that there is no better way to see the world than to walk everywhere and soak up each neighborhood you enter.

Today, why not go for a paseo? Take in the sights, the smells, the sounds- the good and the bad. People watch. Walk. Stop and pet random people’s dogs. Walk. Wander through corner shop without anything in your pockets. Walk. Watch a sunset. Walk until your legs are heavy and your feet feel like they are going to fall off. There really is nothing sweeter. And finally, when it’s all said and done, add the word “paseo” to your vocabulary. Let’s start a paseo revolution ☺

Girls become lovers, who turn into Mothers

Everyday, I become feel like Granada becomes more and more like home. I’ve grown to love the little things everyday that characterize my life here. I’ve memorized the ring-tone of my host mom Carmen’s cell phone, who is more chatty than a high school girl when a friend or one of her grown children is on the other end of the line. I’ve also grown accustomed to the little sounds of the house: the three cranks the front door lock makes every time I enter or leave, the eighth floor neighbors directly above us who move their furniture every evening around 11 PM like clockwork. There’s also very distinct smells in the house, some better than others. For example after someone takes a shower, the water drips out onto the floor, and the steam mixes with bathroom smells to create a quite rejuvenating sauna in the sense that the smell definitely wakes you up. But I do love the smell of Carmen’s cooking, but not for the reason you might expect.

To be honest, I don’t really enjoy her cooking all that much. She does make some mean salmon soaked in garlic sauce, lentil soup, and fruit salad with olive oil and honey dressing. But I’m not in love with many traditional Spanish staples like fried baby sardines, chorizo bocadillos, and tomato salad. With that said, I am always drawn to the kitchen when the scent of olive oil wafts into my room. I stand in the doorway while Carmen cooks in her shiny orange dress and black apron that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. What I love most about being in the kitchen is how Carmen’s maternal love becomes most evident when she’s cooking. Although that might sound odd, it is just one of those things that fills you with a warm feeling. I often ask Carmen if she needs any help, and she’ll point to the napkins on the top shelf, and tell me to get the water jug out of the fridge. She takes care of the rest.

And this is what makes me feel most at home in Spain: the love of a mother. I miss my own mom everyday. But living in a home adds a new dimension to my experience here, which is something very unlike my two years living in the dorms far away from home. Here, I am constantly reminded of my mom through the care and concern Carmen demonstrates towards me. But more importantly, I am reminded what selfless love looks like.

Sure, Carmen gets paid for hosting students, but it is not simply her actions that demonstrate love but her attitude behind it. I love being greeted with a smile when I come home, and laughing at Spanish television shows with her, and seeing my laundry sitting on my bed when after school, folded with care. It is nice being cared for, being loved. And these are all ways my own mom expresses her love for me when I am home. I miss sitting with her down in the basement at night watching TV together, going on neighborhood walks with our dog Tucker (though he’s really only her dog), and driving in the car with her to run errands singing Bette Midler songs.

My mom is a determined woman: she will never, ever let me forget how much she loves me. The past two years when I was away at college, she would sent me at least one letter or card in the mail with comic strips and articles she’d cut out from The Oregonian, Bible verses, stickers, and reddish-orange leaves from the fall that I miss while I'm gone at school. It makes me feel connected to home even when I am a thousand miles away. And then there are always the little notes she writes me in her slightly messy cursive handwriting that took me about 16 years to decipher: “Remember to take your vitamins,” “Good luck on your race this weekend,” and my favorite one of all time, “I love you.”

As I prepare to live in an apartment with friends next semester, it is becoming more and more evident to me how much hard work goes into taking care of a home, being on your own. I’m a little nervous for that next phase in my life. Although I have experience living in the dorms, it is not quite the same as living independently when you have an intercom system in your shoebox room that alerts you it’s quiet time or that there’s paperwork to fill out down in the office.

No, living out in the world is the real deal, and real fears come along with it. Sometimes I’m worried I won’t be able to make it- that I will not have the capacity to balance running and school and my social life as well as housekeeping and cooking. And that’s when I think about Carmen and my mom. Both of these strong women have been such great examples in my life; they are great homemakers, but they are also very selfless people. My mother’s love has shaped me into the person I am today, she’s taught me how to take care of myself through how she’s cared for me. In the same way, I learn new things from Carmen everyday about the world, and life lessons, and what it means to love your children.

About a month ago, I arrived home from school, walked down the hall, and shouted “Hola!” to Carmen who was somewhere in the house. I turned the corner to find her in the kitchen making French fries and chicken. She turned around from the stove, smiled at me, and in her thick Andalucian accent said, “Hola, Mi hija!” (Hello, my daughter!). Instantly, I felt my heart fill with joy, because I knew that was Carmen’s way of saying she loved me. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly get any fuller, Carmen led me into the hallway and pointed to a thick envelope on the table with my name on it, written in the beautiful, loopy handwriting of my mother.

Black and White

I packed mostly black and white clothes in preparation for my semester in Granada, Spain with the intent of having a more versatile, practical wardrobe. To my delight, I arrived in Granada to find narrow, cobble-stoned streets swarming with chic European women clad in black strappy heels and crisp, white blouses.

But fitting in here in Spain isn´t quite as simple as black and white: my blonde hair screams "outsider" almost as much as tourists sporting white Nike tennis shoes and colorful backpacks. But my appearance isn´t the only thing that sets me apart here: some of my beliefs are like night and day in comparison to those of my European classmates.

Last week, my language class broke into a heated discussion about gender roles and the differences among males and females. Many European cultures are traditionally¨"machismo", which means boys are raised to become¨"strong" men who believe crying is a sign of weakness and that cooking and cleaning is a woman´s job only.

It was no surprise, then, when a Greek young man in my class said he would never get a girlfriend if he acted sensitive and emotional. I couldn´t help but challenge his belief, so I asked him in Spanish: "Do Greek girls no like men who are sensitive and honest?¨" Well, I asked for it, and he gave it right back to me with a sneer: "Would you rather date a guy who´s emotional and weak, or one who´s strong?"

His words felt like a whip, and my cheeks started to burn out of embarrassment. But something else happened- right then and there I felt my desire to be a European girl slip out of my fingers like wet soap. "I think it´s about balance," I said, as my voice rose and my speech became more rapid: "Why do you have to choose between the two?" My Greek amigo shot me a nasty look and rolled his eyes, but this time it didn´t shake me. This time, standing up for what I believed trumped my better judgement to remain silent out of cultural sensitivity.

I feel strongly that the connection between heart and mind, emotion and intellect, is a vital aspect of being human- male and female. In a black and white world, women might only be sensitive and men might only be strong. But since our brains are grey matter, we can have a mix of both and it doesn´t make us any less male or any less female.

That day, I walked out of class with a little extra bounce in my step. And the next morning, as I scoured my closet in search of something to wear, I decided against my favorite monochrome outfit and reached for a red and blue sweater instead. And just for good measure, I wrapped a grey scarf around my neck before heading out the door.

Almuneca (a day at the beach)

On Saturday, I went with about 12 other students from my program to the beach, which is only an hour away by bus. We left in the morning and spent the day at a beautiful beach with little island-cliffs to our left and mountains to our right. The best part was that we rented reclining chairs with cushions on them under these cute little umbrellas that look like those hats Asian people in the rice fields wear (that's really the only way to describe them). Anyways, I got to take a nap in the shade, and swim around in the refreshing water while getting to know some of the people in my program. So far, I like everyone: it's funny because Tim and I are the only ones from the West Coast. Most people are either from Chicago or Wisconsin or New York. It's so entertaining to listen to their accents- i just love it! And I love teasing them about it :) But they dish it right back at me, and claim that Tim and I have "West Coast accents" (whatever that means!) It was so much fun relaxing at the beach with new friends. And I can proudly say that I did NOT get burned after my horrible experience in France.

Tim was a riot: he brought our hot pink raft that the French man gave us in Nice, and he wore his little blue goggles from Italy. Needless to say, he was the subject of lots of teasing within our group. Tim is the master of flips and cliff jumping, and that day he earned two new nicknames: Shawn Johnson (like the gymnast) and Spider Monkey. He did me proud :) Sadly, he got a pretty bad sunburn, and his host mom laughed at him when he got home. The other day I met his host mom- she is a riot! In the kitchen she has pictures of her grown daughter on the wall, so I was asking her about them. All of a sudden, she goes, "Don't look at those pictures, look at these beautiful ones!" and points to her refrigirator, which is covered in photos of her three CATS! It's hilarious, she's obsessed with them! Apprarantly the refrigirator is the place where Spaniards display their most prized photographs :)

Running Urban Style

One of the hardest parts about living in Granada is that there aren't a whole lot of places to run in the city. What's more, I don't feel entirely comfortable running in the streets or the park by myself ( I also am horrible with directions). Tim, being the gentleman that he is, meets me before class in the morning to run, even though he lives on the other side of the city. There's a beautiful park a couple blocks away from my house called El Parque de Federico Garcia Lorca (a famous Spanish poet whose summer house was located in the park and is now a museum). The park is enclosed by high walls, and has dirt paths that go around the perimeter of the park. It's full of tall, Dr. Seuss-like trees, fountains, and touchy-feely high school sweethearts who sprawl out on the grass (it's actually a little awkward to run past them). There are usually lots of runners in the park, but almost all men. I don't understand this! If there are female runners, they never wear shorts, even though it's really hot here. As much as I want to blend in here, I absolutely, positively cannot bring myself to run in pants when it is hot- it's inhumane! Even though I get some odd stares, I'm sticking to my guns on this one.

The other day, Tim took me on a killer run that he discovered the day before. In Granada we are already at a high altitude because we're next to the Sierra Navada mountain range. But we upped the ante and "upped" a monster hill that was about a mile long and steep the whole way. At the top, I was coughing up who knows what from my burning lungs. It was a good workout. I also recently joined a gym that's about a five minute walk from my house. It's called "Gimnasio Palandium" and is tiny, but suffiecient. Sadly, I haven't had the chance to go because I've been sick with a cold and sinus infection. I'm going to the doctor today to get some antibiotics, so hopefully I'll be up and running again soon.

where in the house is Carmen San Die--- i mean Gonzales

I love chatting with Carmen. She only speaks Spanish, and has that trademark Granada accent that is charming and incredibly frustrating at the same time. In Granada, people swallow the end of words, so instead of saying "Como estas?" you would say "Como esta?" And that's just the beginning... people talk so fast here, AND have a lisp.. it's a challenge to communicate sometimes! Luckily I've been able to understand Carmen for the most part, and we've had some great conversations sitting at the dining room table. She's hosted students for 13 years now (only girls) so she is very patient with me as I stumble along through conjugations and hand motions and visits to my Spanish-English dictionary (what would I do without it?) I'll watch the celebrity gossip shows with her (Spanish equivalent to Entertainment Tonight), and we'll chat about our favorite movie stars and musicians. Carmen has quite an eclectic taste in music: she loves Whitney Houston, Frank Sinatra, and Bob Marley. But most of all, she loves opera- she even took a trip to New York a few years back and went to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway.

We've had some deep discussions too. One morning I was reading my Spanish Bible at breakfast, and she asked me if I was Catholic. I told her that I am evangelical Christian, and she said she is technically Catholic but thinks the Church is very corrupt so she doesn't ever attend mass. We discussed religion for a while, but it was hard with my limited vocabulary. Even so, it was awesome to openly discuss issues of faith with Carmen. She said she believes all religions are basically the same: they are all paths that lead to the same God in the end. Politely, I told her that I disagree. She persisted: "Yes, they have differences, but they all believe in the same God". I shook my head "no": "sorry, I disagree." The phone rang, and as she answered her call I went back to reading my Bible. "You like reading that, don't you?" she said with a smile. This time, I shook my head "yes".

Can you say "fried baby eel?"

The Spanish eating schedule is an enigma to me. Everyone knows that you're starving after a whole night of not eating, and need to rev up your engine with a hearty breakfast, right? Well in Spain, most people only eat a piece of toast and a cup of coffee to hold them over until 2 PM, when everyone goes home from school or work to eat the biggest meal of the day with their family. I'm somewhat of a rebel, if you will, because my host mom lets me pour my own cereal in the morning, which I take full advantage of. I'm like a little squirrel storing my food away for the long winter (aka 6 hours of fasting). We have this crazy-good chocolate cereal filled with actual chocolate, and delicious granola with dried fruit in it. Who knew eating dessert for breakfast could be so satisfying? At 2:30 we eat lunch; my host mom's an excellent cook, but she also must think we are squirrels hoarding food for the frosty winter, because she gives us gigantic portions. The other night she made us chicken lasagna AND bread AND giant baked potatoes AND apples... I don't like wasting food, but it's way too much! We try to tell her, but she always just tells us to eat more! I like most of the things she makes: lots of soups, delicious melon, pizza, tortilla espanol (potato, egg, and onion). But Spaniards eat a lot of fried food, which doesn't sit well with me. The other day Carmen brought out fried baby eel- you could actually see the little black eyes. Her and Paco said it was a delicacy, so of course I had to be polite and try it. As a rule, I usually don't eat anything with eyes- it was a big step for me :) Dinner (which isn't quite as big) is usually 9:30 PM, but it makes sense because most people go out with their friends around 10 or 10:30 PM to bars or the park or wherever.

On a Friday night, Tim and I decided to go for a walk around 11 PM. We went to a plaza which turns into the high school hang-out zone after dark. It was so much fun people watching, although I kind-of felt like I was spying. Wherever you are in the world, high schoolers are high schoolers. It was amusing to watch the girls dressed in their heels and short skirts greet the boys, and stand there in a circle with their friends. Tim and I suspected that it must be the their designated meeting place before heading to a discoteca (dance club) or bar (the drinking age is 16 here). The night before, we had taken a walk around midnight and sat down on a bench in a different plaza. There was literally a gang of about 25 cats sauntering around the plaza- it was crazy! Even crazier was the fact that there were still PEOPLE in the plaza... and kids playing on the playground! It's a different world here...

Another night we went out to Mexican food with a group from our program- the only thing missing was Mexicans (all the waiters and cooks were Spanish!) Maybe that's why it was so expensive. There was a group of Spaniards our age in the restaurant, who were saying behind our backs "F-ing tourists!" in Spanish.... I really don't know why some Spaniards hate Americans so much. We weren't being noisy or obnoxious, we were simply eating dinner. Sometimes it's hard to feel welcome in Granada, but it just gives me more motivation to learn Spanish, since I don't want to be viewed as an ignorant, monolingual tourist. But since I'm blonde, I'm always going to stick out here no matter what. It's odd to go from being the majority in Southern California where everyone is blonde, to being the minority in Spain. So far, though, it hasn't given me too much trouble.

my (very Spanish) apartment

I live up on the seventh floor in an apartment building close to downtown. Down below is a very dangerous neighborhood: there's an ice cream shop on the corner with the most incredible hazelnut gelato, a croissaint shop across the street that smells of fresh baguettes and chocolate filled pastries, and a cafe around the corner with cafe con creme (coffee with cream), chocolate con churros, and WIFI (where I'm sitting right now). I practically live in Cafe Colon in the morning, because both my roommates have morning classes while mine are from 4-8 PM. I always order my morning coffee for a euro, and sit in the same seat by the window. The owner must know me as that-blonde-girl-with-the-tiny-bladder, but in my defense, i drink coffee everyday (and lots of water). Unfortunately, the cafe is also a bar, which means people can suck on their cancer sticks and send nasty smoke my direction- i promise I'm not bitter, just concerned for their health! I always order in Spanish, but since the owner lived in Florida for 15 years, he ALWAYS answers me in English- so much for immersing myself in the culture :) With that said, I have to restrain myself daily from buying coffee AND ice cream AND a chocolate filled croissant- because believe me, I would.

But back to my house: it sits at the end of the hall, and has a huge living room with full-length windows looking down on the street below. We sit on couches instead of chairs when we eat, and there's a giant flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. The living room/dining room is furnished with antique furniture, old photographs, posters of Prague and New York (Carmen's favorite places), and ancient paintings. An old camera sits on the shelf next to photo albums and musty books, and even though the room has big windows, it still has that dark, dignified feel to it. Down the hall is Carmen and Paco's room and bathroom, and a small kitchen that has an adjacent laundry room. Further down the hall (close to the front door) is Rachel's room, our bathroom, and me and Hannah's room. When you enter our room, you first have to walk through a tiny, dark hallway. We have two twin beds, a window that opens up to the laundry room ( don't worry, it's bright), and closets on the far wall. It's kind of fun because I can hear Carmen humming to herself every time she does laundry. There's a clothesline right outside, that looks like one of those Tibetan prayer flags when it's full. Every time Carmen hands me my clothes through the window into my room, it reminds me of a drive-through fast food joint... I'm thinking of calling it McLaundry (sorry, bad joke) Our room is pretty dark most of the time, since the lights are rather weak and we are in the back of the house. But it's not that bad- it's kind-of like a little cave: very private and cozy, with paintings, posters, and mirrors smothering the walls.

I don't want to drag this on, but i do want to say that the shower is the oddest part of the house. It's like one of those stand-up boxes magicians use to make people disappear- you literally can't move it's so small. I just hope I don't ever get stuck in there :) The other day I broke the wall attachment for the spigot, so now it's like one of those nursing home showers where you just have the sprayer to hold above your head. Actually, I take that back. I don't think nursing home shower water is quite as cold as ours... it definitely wakes you up in the morning! Did I mention that I also broke the the string attached to our overhead light in the bedroom? Yeah, I haven't had very good luck with household appliances on this trip. Luckily Carmen likes me, or feels sorry for me, or a little bit of both.

Granada y mi familia espanola

September 9th

On August 30th, Tim and I arrived in Granada around 10:30 PM after a long afternoon of travel via the ferry and the bus. We got really, really lucky because we literally had to run off the ferry in Malaga, flag down a taxi, and run onto the bus that left five minutes later for Malaga... we were so relieved we made it!! After taking a taxi to the Hotel Carmen in Granada, I met my roommate Hannah when I accidentally woke her up upon entering our hotel room. Poor Hannah had to travel the entire day with a col/flu- i felt so bad for her! The next morning I went downstairs to the breakfast buffet and met my other roommate, Rachel. I am so blessed to have awesome roommates. Hannah (who I share a room with) is also a junior in college, is a linguistics major, and goes to school at UT Knoxville. Hannah is an avid rock climber and lacrosse player, and we have a LOT of fun together. Rachel just graduated from high school in Chicago, and is here for the whole year. She is quite the fashionista, and also wants to major in journalism. Rachel's boyfriend is also studying in Granada- what are the odds?

After breakfast and a little walking tour of Granada, we went back to the hotel and met our host mothers. My host mother's name is Carmen, and what better way to describe her than SPANISH. I don't think I could imagine a more Spanish woman. She is rather short, with long, dark hair she always wears pulled back. She usually wears long house dresses an a black apron when she cooks, that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. Her ancestors are all from Spain, and her dad was actually a soccer player on the world famous soccer team, Real Madrid! But it gets better... even though soccer is practically in her blood, Carmen prefers to watch bullfighting- yes, bullfighting!! And, like all good Spanish mothers, she adores her son- and i don't use the word "adore" lightly. Carmen and Paco (her husband, who I will describe in a minute) have four children, but only one son. The entire refrigirator is covered in pictures of their son, who lives in Mallorca and is an accomplished seafood chef. She always, always talks about him, but rarely about her daughters- it's pretty funny! Carmen and Paco have been married for 40 years, and they call each other "mi nia" and "mi nino" (my girl and my boy). Probably back when they started calling each other that, they WERE kids!

Paco is a very amusing older man: every morning around 8 AM he puts on the same baby blue gym shorts that he wears over his pot belly and his red workout shirt and goes to the gym to swim. When he comes home, his sits in his chair in the living room with his shirt off and watches TV. Carmen told us that about 10 years ago, Paco had a head injury, and has some memory loss. He seems a little aloof, but he's very sweet. One day last week, Carmen and Paco's daughters came over with their children. One of the daughters (whose husband also came) has a six year old son, and the other daughter has a two year old daughter and a four year old son. I'll just say that I think Spanish children are absolutely adorable!! In contrast to American children, Spanish parents dress their kids up in cute little dresses and collared shirts (a little impractical but it melts your heart). Carmen brought out some candy and gifts for the kids, and then put on Mulan in Spanish. I tried to follow the conversation, but oh my gosh! Her daughters talked a mile a minute and it sounded like a different language. Defeated, I slumped back on the couch and attempted to watch Mulan with the kids. But every five minutes, Paco would randomly break out in some Spanish folk song about having to painstakingly chose between three pretty girls in Granada in his robust, deep voice. The funny thing was, no one seemed to pay any attention to him, they just kept talking! Not even his granddaughter, Aurora, who he kept trying to lure over: "Aurora, dame besos!" (Give me kisses! ). Both her and her brother were more interested in the handheld Gameboy that Grandma had taken down from the highest shelf for them to play with. I felt kind-of bad for Paco, but he didn't seem to mind; he just kept on singing and I loved every minute of it.

Bright lights, small city

Later that night, we went downtown to where the Melilla fair was just beginning. Although the actual carnival part of the fair was not open yet, there was a free show set up, so we went to check out the Argentinian concert/dance performance. We pulled up white plastic chairs near the back, behind the sound both where a curly-haired young woman in a white flowing sundress and white sandals stood on a chair with a video camera- I recognized her from the ferry. The show was so much fun- there were pulsing drums and upbeat Argentinian music that was hard not to tap your feet to. In parts, the Argentinian dance crew were traditional outfits and for the more contemporary, artistic numbers they were a bit more scantily clad :) I loved sitting there, surrounded by Spanish people, rocking to the smooth melodies and strong, clear voices that sang out into the crowd.

Like Paris, Melilla really comes alive at night. The next night, there was a fireworks show down by the water- EVERYONE was out, even little kids despite the fact that it was 10 PM. It was the closest I've ever been to a huge fireworks show. Some literally felt as if they were going to shoot down and shower me with neon rain-- luckily that didn't happen :) But some fireworks flew up and sparkled mid-air, then shot down into the sea below, snaking their way under the glimmering surface of the water. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely deafening at the same time!

But the best night of the fair came when we headed to the carnival, which goes for a week and often lasts all night. There were the most impressive lights set up like arches and intricately designed into unique patterns that stretched around the perimeter of the carnival. There were tons of rides, many of which were for little kids. There were food stands, little vendors, and carnival games boasting fluffy stuffed animals and cheesy prizes. But the best part of the fair wasn't the set-up or the lights, or even the rides: it was the people. In Spain, people actually dress up to go to the fair- including the little kids. Almost every little girl we saw under the age of about 8 was dressed in the most adorable bright little flamenco outfits with matching heeled shoes of the same color. Their shiny hair was slicked back into buns, and their faces were painted with makeup- it was kind-of odd, but also very precious. Even better, many little boys were also wearing traditional flamenco outfits- black pants and white little vests- it was soooo cute!! I loved watching the little kids go around and around on the rides, looking so dignified and proud in their fancy attire. Many of the adults also dressed up, and some moms wore matching dresses with their daughters. If people weren't wearing traditional flamenco outfits, they were at least semi-dressed up with heels or a nice shirt. I don't think I've ever enjoyed people watching as much as I did that night! It was so much fun to stroll around the fair and take it all in- just to be a part of the excitement and joy that permeated the air. We also had some delicious chocolate con churros- the perfect way to end the night. The next day, Tim and I would be leaving for Granada-- I didn't want to go! Sometimes I feel that a little piece of my heart is in that city, as cheesy as that may sound. But I love it there- it's truly an incredible place.

North Africa

August 25th

Today we took the ferry across the Mediterranean sea from Malaga, Spain to Melilla, North Africa. Melilla is a Spanish city (colony) that sits right next to Morocco on the coast of North Africa. Tim and I went to go visit our family friends, a couple who have lived in Melilla for many, many years. The ferry ride was very long (seven and a half hours to be exact!) I was able to sleep a little, but I couldn't do much else since I started getting seasick. The ferry was HUGE- there were lots of rooms with seating, as well as a cafeteria, an outside deck with a pool, and a bar with couches and chairs. We went over to the bar to watch Harry Potter in Spanish, but gave up after a group of Moroccan men talked their heads off so loudly in Arabic right in front of the TV that it was impossible to hear the movie. I did feel kind-of bad, though, because Tim and I had some ice cream in front of everyone, while half of the people on the boat were Muslim. Why does that even matter, you might wonder? Well, because a week before was the start of Ramadan (fasting during the daylight hours) for all Muslims. So eating in front of people who are fasting the entire day isn't exactly a nice thing to do. In my defense, I had completely forgotten it was Ramadan. But luckily, there were also Spanish people on the boat, many who were not Muslim and do not fast.

We arrived in Melilla around 8:30 PM, and were greeted by our friends, who live in a flat near downtown, and that night we had some delicious spaghetti that reminded me of home and my mom especially, who is a very good cook! The next day, we spent time exploring the city, and helped put a back on a couch- there was a lot of sanding, varnishing, sawing, and nailing involved. Although it was hard work, Tim and I welcomed the change of pace. After traveling around for two weeks, actually WORKING gave us some purpose and direction, which was definitely good for us. We had lunch at the house with the (grown) daughter and husband of our friends, who have the cutest little baby boy! He had just learned to walk, so he teetered around the living room, picking up random objects and smiling with the cutest little jack-o'lantern grin I have ever seen :) That evening we all went for a walk around the city... down to the beach, the marina, the plazas. It was around dusk, and was absolutely beautiful.

Melilla is a unique city.The population is very diverse, even though it's pretty small place. It's also a place of striking contrast: About half of the population is Muslim (Morroccan), while the rest of the population is mostly Spanish. There are Jewish and a Hindu neighborhoods, and a large group of Catholics. It's amazing to me that, for the most part, Melilla is a peaceful place. If you go out for a walk, you will see many Muslim women with their bodies and heads covered, Moroccan men with their dark skin and glinting brown eyes, Spanish women who wear tight jeans, sandals, and colorful tank tops, as well as Spanish men with light features wearing t-shirts. It is so fascinating! I loved seeing Spanish and Muslim women stand next to each other in line, living their normal, but so very different lives side by side. Young and old, conservative and liberal, deeply religious and agnostic. The contrast between the women in particular struck me with such intensity- I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because I empathize greatly with all women, since (of course) I am one as well.

Muslim women fast just as their husbands and older children do, but instead of fasting for a month during Ramadan, those between puberty and menopause must make up for the fasts they miss during their time of menstruation. so they must fast for even more time than the men. Also, most Muslim women spend the whole day in the kitchen during Ramadan, preparing food for their children during the day, and for the rest of their families for the night- usually a huge feast. This year, Ramadan is in August, a horrible time to be stuck in the kitchen and fasting, since you cannot even drink water when you fast. A Muslim woman must submit to her husband; her life is very different than the Spanish woman who might live next door.

The Spanish woman in Melilla wears what she pleases. Although many older Spanish women dress rather conservatively, many younger generations wear jeans or shorts, and tank tops during the summer when it's hot. They do not fast, and aren't subject to the many rules and patriarchal customs of Muslim women. It must be hard for Muslim young women to see their Spanish friends from school grow up alongside them with much more freedom. I know that Muslim women want to adhere to their religious beliefs, but that doesn't mean it would be easy. I guess I just can't imagine what it must be like to grow up as a Muslim young woman... to have to cover up my body and sacrifice so much of the freedom that I take for granted daily.

August 26th

We went into Morocco the next morning, and decided to fast to better understand what it is like to participate in Ramadan. It was hot and sticky, but I wore long pants and covered my shoulders out of respect (and also not to get stared at). We first headed up to the hills across the border to see some monkeys that a man keeps in a yard, where visitors can watch them jump on top of their cars and crawl around. When we got there, the place was barren. Apparently, many African immigrants trying to get into Melilla illegally eat the wild monkeys in the hills while they are hiding out and waiting to cross the border. We didn't know if this is what happened, but it wouldn't be surprising. We stopped at a brand new store called Marjane, which is basically a Moroccan Walmart with everything you can imagine- it was pretty cool! It is the first one of its kind in the city of Nador. Next, we drove to a small town to visit one of their friends at his house. There was a little family-run store next to the house, where a little girl stood barefoot outside in a fancy ballgown laced with dirt, staring at us as we went inside to greet their friends. The women of the house were covered, but they were so warm to us. We sat in their living room, bordered with intricately embroidered couches and pillows and tiled walls.

After a little while, we headed to the beach. It was almost completely empty, since people do not go swimming during Ramadan because the water will get into their pores. The shopping area nearby looked like a ghost town, even though it was supposedly a new, touristy area of the city. The ocean was like bath water, and was clean and clear. We sat next to the ocean, and Tim and I made a sand castle and threw a frisbee around. I would through it into the water and he would try to dive while it was in mid-air and catch it (it sounds cooler than it actually was, though!) In a couple hours, we piled into the car once more and drove through the countryside to the "souk", or outdoor market in Nador. Everywhere, people were selling things: fried bread, little bracelets and keychains, spices, fruit, pirated DVDs... parts of it were like a huge flea market, with endless rooms and stalls chock-full of STUFF. We went down into the food market, where stalls of spices and dried fruit, meat, fish and vegetables stand pressed up against each other in the dark shadows of the humid halls with only a tiny pathway to walk. We got some dried figs and dates, as well as some green olives for when we would break the fast later that day. In the heat, it was hard to walk very fast with little to know energy. Everyone looked lethargic, hungry, and slightly grumpy. We trudged along through the market, constantly being stopped by little kids who smelled of urine begging for money, as well as old men with squinty eyes and furrowed brows, holding out their shaking hands in hope of some spare change. Although I had been there once before, it broke my heart. The suffering there is not simply found in the crisis of economic hardship and poverty... it's there in people's eyes, in the empty stomachs and hidden, long dark hair. It's found in the pleading voices and dirty toes of little children who follow you like stray dogs in the street.

As we headed back to the car to return to Melilla, I felt the pain of my own stomach grumbling and complaining. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, and closed my eyes in attempt to dispel some of the dizziness that fitfully held my thoughts in a jumbled, clouded state. My throat was dry from lack of water, and my eyes burned in the dry sun. I hated wearing long pants and a long shirt in the heat- it was ridiculous! But at the same time, I was in no place to complain. I felt a deeper understanding for Moroccan women, as well as a deeper sense of gratitude for my own life circumstances. The word freedom is so ambiguous- what does it even mean to be free? In the US, we get to say what we want, have barbecues in our backyard, and shoot off fireworks in celebration. But the celebration of freedom is found in other, simpler ways too: in the feeling of bare legs and shoulders stretched out under the sun at the beach, in the healthy, "organic" food we can eat everyday, in women's rights and soapy, warm bathtubs prepared for little kids and nursing homes for the elderly. In air-conditioned shopping malls, street cleaners, regular trips to the dentist and after school activities. We often equate freedom with fairness, with our "rights". But our freedoms are more than that-- they are tremendous gifts some people would give anything for. Coming across the border, the patrol man looked at Tim's passport and mine, then handed them back and said, jokingly: "America, taking over the world!" I forced a laugh, but a part of me cringed at those words... I don't want to just be a taker, but also a giver.

The REAL Madrid

August 23rd

I absolutely loved Madrid. Today we stayed in the coolest hostel in a really nice part of downtown that was very close to a metro stop. We downtown around 10 PM for dinner at this delicious vegetarian falafel pita place, then checked out the Plaza Mayor. The plaza was filled with cafes and street performers. One of the performers was a man with a table over him and his head sticking out, with two fake heads sticking out on either side. His face was painted like a clown, and it was really creepy in the dim light! As I was walking by, he hissed at me!! It kinda creeped me out! There was also a couple performing a flamenco dance, which was so fun to see. We set out to look for a flamenco show at a place I had read about before the trip, but we got a little lost getting there. When we finally found it, we realized it was a little out of our price range. So instead, we went to a fun bar and had Spanish sangria- this amazing mixture of fruit juice and wine. The bartender, a young guy from Morocco, was hilarious and came over to chat with us, which was a lot of fun.

August 24th

We rented boats at Retiro Park, and rowed around the little man-made lake there this morning. It was so pretty! As we walked around Madrid, I kept thinking about my dad, who studied in Madrid for a semester when he was my age. Every place we went, I wondered if he had seen the same things, and had thought similar things about the places and the people and the culture. Since the Prado museum was closed, we went to the modern art museum, Reina Sofia, which I absolutely loved. There, we saw a ton of Picasso's work, as well of tons of other big, bright paintings and exhibits- it is now my favorite art museum (check out my pictures on Facebook from it!). That evening, we went to an old authentic restaurant on the other side of town called Casa Mingo that makes their own cider. We ordered a whole chicken to share, tuna empenadas, and a botle of cider that tasted like Martinelli's only 10 times better. It was a bittersweet night, because it was our last night together as a group. In the morning, Tim and I were leaving for North Africa, Laura was heading down to school, and Tess was going to meet up with her mom in Madrid to do a little more sightseeing before heading back home.

That night, I began to reflect on our trip- it had gone by so fast! Before the trip, I hadn't expected so many things to go wrong. I had no idea we would have so many train troubles, or little disagreements within our group, or so many cranky mornings and tense moments. I knew that the trip wasn't going to be perfect, but I think I had built it up so much in my mind that I was slightly disappointed that the trip was very much reality, and didn't really resemble a fantasy European vacation at all. Traveling- especially backpacking cheaply- is hard work! It's exhausting and stressful, which doesn't always bring out the best in people. It was also hard traveling with three other people, because we tended to pair up. It was just easier that way; it's hard to walk down the street four people in a row and maintain a group conversation! We also had a lot of little fights here and there- mostly when we wanted to do different things or eat different things at times when we were grumpy or tired or homesick. But I wouldn't trade the trip for anything, because I learned so much about myself and about the world as a result. I think, sadly, one of the things I learned is that life is always going to be difficult, wherever you are. It's never going to be a fantasy world. Being in beautiful places, meeting cool people, and seeing amazing things is so worth it! But it is not fulfilling in and of itself. I think what makes traveling so great is more about what you learn as a result. Sure, resort vacations are great and relaxing, but if you really want to grow, try backpacking through Europe.

You might be wondering what exactly I learned about myself from this portion of the trip. Yes, I definitely learned so much about other cultures and lifestyles, history, fashion, art, food, you name it. But on a deeper level,I'm still trying to sort things out. I CAN say that I learned more about my character flaws than anything else, as hard as that is to admit. Like everyone else, I'm an inherently selfish person, sometimes more stubborn and feisty than others. This trip really humbled me. It's hard to compromise, to let someone else "win", to be okay when plans change and situations are difficult and uncomfortable. That's what life experience is all about. Life is not all about me, which is sometimes hard to accept (yes, i will be the first one to admit it). I was grumpy a lot, and it's something I'm not proud of. At the same time, this trip brought me a lot closer to God, in the sense that I was so far away from Him when it started (and for most of the trip). I honestly didn't have the capacity to be loving and selfless when things were hard on the trip, because I didn't have peace in my heart. The most amazing thing, though, is that I needed to glimpse myself and my own darkness to recognize that I needed God reach in and fill me with HIS peace and HIS light and HIS love. I'm so thankful for that realization, for God's transforming grace.

Bar-tha-lona

August 20th-August 21st

Getting to Barcelona was a headache. And I am not exaggerating. We first went to Nice, but had to stop in a city along the way for two hours because there was a fire on the tracks! When we finally got to Nice to buy our ticket to Barcelona and spend the night, all tickets had been sold out. So Laura and Tess begged and pleaded with the woman at the reservation desk, who miraculously found us an overnight train the next night at 9:30 PM to a border city outside of Spain, then a connecting train to Barcelona the next morning. Nice, a resort city on the coast of Southern France, turned out to be a fun place to hang out for a day. After leaving our backpacks in lockers at the train station the next morning (and changing into our swimsuits in the locker room (quite the experience!) we hung out at the beach for the day. A guy even gave us his hot pink blow-up raft! It was so hot, but we laid out on the rocks after swimming and all fell asleep. Bad idea: we all got so burned!! We walked around Nice until our train, which was so tiny and cramped and smelly. But I seriously can fall asleep anywhere, it's one of my best talents. So I strapped on my eye mask and put in my earplugs and slept the whole 8 hours sitting up (that was a first for me). We ended up missing one of our trains, so we had to train hop the whole morning until we finally got the one we needed to Barcelona.

August 22nd

Originally, we were planning to spend two days in Barcelona, but we ended up with only an evening and half a day. Our hostel in Barcelona was great- there was a kitchen where we made pasta for dinner, and it was very cute and clean with bright colors and really friendly travelers. That night, we went out for tapas. The first place we went, our bartender was so mean! He basically ignored us the whole time we were there, and I think he was mad because we didn't order very much. The next place we went was a little off the beaten track, and was filled with locals. We ordered tons of tapas: french fries with hot sauce, squid, bread, chorizo, Spanish cheese.... it was delicious! Some of the locals didn't look too happy we were there, though. I think Spaniards in Barcelona must get tired of the constant stream of tourists- I know I would! We didn't realize until later that we were staying in the gay district of the city. That night, we stopped at a local cafe down the street from our hostel so Tim could get some tortilla espanol. Just about every guy in the cafe turned their heads to stare at Tim (who had his shirt buttoned halfway down because of the heat) when he walked in- especially the waiter! When he brought out Tim's food to-go, he had given him a HUGE portion of tortilla espanol, and had filled the box to the brim with bread and other snacks. It was pretty funny, if not a little awkward for Tim (and me!)

August 23rd

The next day we headed to the Parque Guell up on a hill, which is where the artist and architect who designed the park (as well as many other famous buildings in Barcelona) lived. We toured his house filled with funky furniture, and walked around the huge park, which was really cool. Sadly, we had to catch our train that afternoon to Madrid, but I'm glad we got to see at least a little part of the city.

The Cinque Terre

August 18th

This afternoon we arrived in the Cinque Terre after a series of train rides. Our last train we took wove through a long stretch of tunnels next to the coast. It was so fun, because every once in a while we were spit out of the shadows of the tunnel and into the sunlight for a few seconds before more tunnels. It was like a glimpse of paradise: the water was a pristine, deep blue and the cliffs jutted out over the Mediterranean. It was very surreal. We got to the town we were staying in, Corniglia, and had to walk up a gigantic hill with our backpacks, since it's up on a cliff. It was so hot and sticky all I wanted to do was jump into the ocean and swim! After checking into our hostel, we went down to the beach, which had huge, flat rocks you could sit on instead of sand. There were so many people down there (mostly Italians) on their summer vacation. The water was warm, the sun was toasty, and it was so, so beautiful I can't even describe it. Tim jumped off a 20 foot cliff into the water with some local Italian bows, and we swam around, soaking in our surroundings. Later, we took a local train to the neighboring town of Manarola for dinner where we found a little Italian joint called Il Porticiolo that Rick Steves actually recommended in his book! I had pesto ravioli that was delicious- I could eat Italian food my whole life and always be happy. Right near the restaurant was a small marina where we witnessed another exquisite sunset. The Cinque Terre is such a peaceful place, I love it.

August 19th

After breakfast, we hiked to the neighboring villages of Vernazza and Monterrosso. It was hot, but gorgeous. The hike was a lot of uphills and downhills, with steep stairs and winding, narrow trails- there were so many people out! Towards the end of the hike, we often had to pull off to the side of the trail to let people going the other way get by. But the views on the hike were stunning, since it was directly above th coast. It was so much better in person than I could have imagined- I would recommend going to the Cinque Terre if ever in Italy. With about a mile and a half to Monterrosso (the hike took 2 hours), Tim and I ran, even though we got some odd stares. But I wasn't about to pass up the chance to run on one of the most beautiful trails in the world :) When we got to the end of the trail, we sat down on the stairs to wait for Laura and Tess. Fifteen minutes went by, then a half hour, than 45 minutes and they still hadn't shown up. We asked a park ranger on the trail if she had seen them pass, but she hadn't. So we stopped at a little foccaciaria for lunch, then hiked all the way back to Corniglia. By the end, we were exhausted and disty. It was torturous to hike all the way back staring at the refreshing blue water below! Tim and I went down to the beach to swim, which was just what we needed. Later, we took the traint o Monterrosso for dinner, where we met up with Laura and Tess for gelato. Back at the hostel that night, we met two guys our age from the East Coast who went to school at Duke and were going to study for a semester in Barcelona. We sat outside of the hostel with them, and then four Australians joined us (two couples around 25 who live in London and work as high school PE teachers). It was so much fun talking with them, joking, and listening to their aussie accents and abbreviations for everything (for example, they call all swimsuits "swimmers"!). I would love to visit Australia someday. We all talked late into the night, which is something I will always remember because we were all from such different places but we had so much fun together. I love the feeling of meeting new people- the excitement of sharing stories and thoughts about life and travel and culture. It was one of the best nights of the whole trip.

Florence Knows How to Make Pizza

August 17th

Early this afternoon we arrived in Florence- a charming little city chock full of gelaterias, pizzarias, ridiculously expensive clothing stores, and old, picturesque bridges stretching between the two halves of the city. As we walked from the train station to our hostel, I began my daily people-watching session that is so much more fun in Europe than in the States (obviously). Tim and All of a sudden we heard someone yell "Tim!", and when we turned around, a dark-haired guy about our age came running at Tim, greeting him with a big bear hug. It really is a small world- it was Tim's friend, Brandon, from Azusa Pacific, who was visiting Florence with his cousins! Oddly enough, I wasn't all that surprised. Tim is the kind of person that runs into people he knows pretty much wherever he goes, which I love about him. Anyways, we got to our hostel on a narrow, alley-like street near the river where the owner, Leonardo, showed us our (very pink) room. It had blue shutters and an amazing view of... well, a cement wall. It wasn't the most glamorous of places, but it was affordable in a city where tourists are up the ying-yang. Leonardo told us about this pizza place, so we went there for some authentic, hot, glorious Italian pizza- it was perfect! We checked out the Duomo, an elaborate dome cathedral- and I had the privilege of wearing a disposable poncho because I had a tank top on- that go a few laughs! Of course, we also had gelato ( I had coconut and hazelnut- my favorites), which is much cheaper (and better) in Italy than in the States. The only thing I didn't like about Florence was the fact that most of the people there were tourists. I know, I know, I'm also one of "them", but to me touristy cities don't feel like the real deal with the endless streets of expensive stores and gift shops clogged with photo-snapping, fanny-pack-wearing tourists. Nevertheless, Florence was very pretty, especially the place where we ate our calzones next to the river on a park bench. After dinner, Tim and I took a walk along the river and saw the most beautiful sunset over the water. That night, though, I got eaten alive by a swarm of mosquitoes that buzzed through our window... they must have tasted all the sugar in my blood from all that tasty gelato :)

Off to Milan!

August 16th

This morning all hell broke loose. We were cleaning the apartment in preparation to leave for Milan in the early afternoon, and were about ready to leave when I realized that I couldn't find my Eurail pass. I usually kept it in my money belt, but it had, to my horror, disappeared. We were already running late, but I frantically threw everything out of my backpack to search for my pass. I threw rumpled (and slightly smelly) clothes over my shoulder, scoured my backpack, and began to panic when I still couldn't find it after a thorough search of all my stuff. Tim even looked through his stuff with the slight hope that somehow he had picked up my pass by accident. But it was nowhere to be found. My heart started racing: the pass was around $400, and I needed it for two more weeks of travel on who knows how many more trains. But we already had reservations for our train to Milan, so we set out for the train station via the metro. At the metro stop, Jessi came running up behind me: I had left a bag of electronic cords at her house! I was so relieved that she caught us in time. On the metro, hot tears began to form in the corners of my eyes- I didn't even know if they would let me on the train without my pass, but I didn't have time to buy a whole ticket before boarding. We rushed to the station, boarded the train, and sat down. And then I decided to look just one more time-just to be safe. But I still couldn't find it. Then Tim tapped me on the shoulder. He pulled out his wallet, reached inside, and retrieved my beautiful, wonderful, perfect Eurail pass. I didn't know if I felt like laughing or crying- whatever I felt, it was a very, very good place to be :)

On the train, Tess had a broken seat so the conductor moved us to this plush first -class private box at the very front of the train- it was so nice! After 7 hours we arrived in Milan around 9:30 PM, and had to wait in line to reserve our train the next morning to Florence. The air was sticky, but Italy already felt less stuffy than Paris in terms of the culture: everyone in Italy seemed a whole lot more friendly and relaxed, and it made sense! Italian sounded so beautiful, and even the little girls in line who were running around screaming their heads off sounded like mini enlightened poets- the rhythmic words slid off their tongues like smooth jazz, and I was in awe. Even the bus drivers in Italy were friendly. We timidly asked a bus driver perched outside his bus eating a slice of pizza dripping with hot cheese where bus #60 was, and he quickly whipped his head inside his bus and yelled in Italian: "Does anyone speak English?!" Everyone on the bus turned their eyes toward us, and shook their heads "no." Strangely enough, none of the passengers appeared annoyed by our disruption of their bumpy commute home. They all looked so darn happy to be sitting on a bus at 10:30 at night in Milan- don't ask me why :) Laura, who is regularly blessed with strokes of genius, said "sesenta" (60 in Spanish), and the driver let out a loud "Ahh!" and pointed us to the other side of the street. Our bus was just about to leave when we boarded- luck seemed to be on our side that night.

The only damper to the evening came when I attempted to pull my 35 pound backpack off my back and onto the seat just as the bus was pulling out. Apparantly, driving in Italy doesn't quite match the laid-back lifestyle of this pasta-eating, rhythmically speaking country. I slammed against the window, and my backpack slid down my arm, leaving a gnarly looking bruise. Defeated, I sat down to nurse my battle wound until we got to our hotel- or so we thought. We walked up a long flight of stairs to a front desk where a young Italian guy sat glued to the computer screen, watching a YouTube hip-hop video titled "Come Turn Me On" or something grotesquely and distinctly American like that. He quickly exited out of the page and turned his attention to us, but couldn't find our reservation! Before we could say "Ay, Mio!" he whisked out his phone, called someone, and then told us we had a reservation at the hotel next door. At the other place, we had a cute little room with four rock-hard beds lined up in a row, and a hideous flower painting mounted on the opposite wall. Since we had been on the rain for 7 hours, none of us were all that tired. So we all laid in our beds, staring at the cieling in the unforgiving humidity. Maybe it was the insanity of traveling, or the fact that we were in a strange, random place just for the night. But something struck, and we all began laughing hysterically for no good reason. It was glorious.

Nutella, Notre Dame, and Nightlife

August 12th

We all woke up late and ran across the street to pick up breakfast at a cute hole-in-the-wall patisserie right across the street for some croissants. I have to say, patisseries in Paris are unbelievable. I think I could probably eat about 10 croissants in one sitting, especially with nutella. They are so light and crispy and buttery, so so good! Then we walked downtown, which took us about half an hour of weaving through crowded streets full of cafes, shoe stores, and clusters of laid-back loiterers standing in the middle of the sidewalk. On our way there, we stopped in a little cafe to order coffee "au zinc" or "at the bar" which is about half the price of sitting at a table to drink it. Who knew? For lunch, I got a crepe with nutella... i know, i need to stop with the nutella, but i just can't!! Anyways, we then headed to the Eiffel Tower, which we climbed at dusk and looked out over the city of Paris. It was absolutely gorgeous. You could see for miles, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. We also sat on a lawn with an amazing front-and-center view of the Tower, where tons of chic young Parisians were sitting, drinking wine and eating baguettes and brie. I could get used to the Parisian way of life- just not the chain smoking, which must be the reason why most Parisians are so thin!

August 13th

We walked along the Siene River until we found Notre Dame Cathedral- it was hard to miss because there were hundreds of people waiting in line outside. But it was worth the walk and the wait. Inside, there are the most beautiful stained glass windows, high cielings, and incredible acoustics. There was a section blocked off for prayer, where a small group of worshippers were singing some sort of aria in French led by an older black woman with a clear, strong voice that gave me chills. It was almost surreal as I stood there listening in the midst of tourists rushing by in the dimly-lit cathedral. There was such tranquility in her voice, which was filled with passion and faith- I felt very lucky to have witnessed it.

At night, the city of Paris comes alive. Everyone is out at little cafes along the canal, or bars tucked away in humble but colorful neighborhoods. We went out to a little place called Cafe Cherie that Jessi suggested- a five minute walk from her place. It was a cozy little place on a corner, with outdoor seating and old school desks for tables. It was fun to sit there with friends, and listen to everyone around us laughing and talking in French even though I couldn't understand a word. I'm happy we went out that night, just to experience the culture. Even though it was a week night, everyone was out with friends and family. It was, in my opinion, a glimpse into a much warmer side of Paris.

August 14th

Tim and I went to visit the Pere Lachaise cemetary, where many famous people like Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried. I have to say, it was kinda creepy. First of all, when we got there we saw this middle-aged man lurking in the on the shady pathway. We walked in between the mouseleum graves (they looked like little outhouses) that you can actually go inside of. The man slipped into one and slammed the door behind him. Tim and I looked at each other, and then a few minutes later the guy emerged. Who knows what he was doing in there... I'm hoping the was just praying in there or something :) But we had fun looking at all the old graves and statues, and there was a beautiful park area with a view of the city below. It was a serene escape from the loud busy city that was much needed. Later, we went to visit the Louvre, and saw the Mona Lisa (smaller than I imagined) as well as the Code of Hammurabai (Tim's favorite) and Venus de Milo (my favorite). But the Louvre is so incredibly huge, and we were so incredibly tired and hungry, that we didn't stay very long. It was also extremely crowded, and it was hard to stand and look at pictures when hundreds of people were filing past you, off to see the Mona Lisa or whatever it was they were looking for. I will say, though, that my heart skipped a beat as we walked up to the Mona Lisa in a sea of people, and I saw it in the distance. I guess I just felt so alive to see such a famous piece of history right in front of me, even though it sounds cheesy. It was just one of those moments that you have to pinch yourself and say "Am I really here right now, seeing this?" It was a very cool feeling.

August 15th

In the late morning, we all boarded a bus to go see the Catacombs, an underground cemetary filled with bones stacked to the cieling and goes on for about 300 kilometers under the city. It was built by the Romans thousands of years ago as quarries, and later when the city of Paris started to grow and above-ground cemetaries started filling up, people started getting sick from the dead, rotting bodies. So, Paris put the old quarries to good use and starting putting the bones of the dead below ground, which is now known as the Catacombs. Pretty crazy, huh? I was uneasy about going, but Tim really wanted to see it. Sadly, when we got there they were closed, so we walked back home. On our way, we found the Palace of Louxembourg, which is surrounded by beautiful gardens open to the public. That night, we walked down to the canal near our place, where tons of young Parisians go to sit and hang out with friends. It was a warm night, and the perfect time for people watching. There was a group of glamorous young Parisan women sitting next to us celebrating a friends' birthday with champagne and gifts. It was truly a place where the locals went to hang out, and to me that was much more fun than many of the touristy hang-outs we could have seen. It was the perfect way to end our time in Paris, and something I will never forget.